


The Guest

by Spiderheart



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: An Old Queen, M/M, Secret Lover Trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22709968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiderheart/pseuds/Spiderheart
Summary: Q finds refuge in one of Bond's safe houses... and meets his lover.
Relationships: James Bond/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	The Guest

**Author's Note:**

> My take on the Secret Lover trope. Just had a lil fun with some wish-fulfilment.

The door to Bond’s safehouse opened, and revealed a strange person in pink pyjamas on the large chaise in front of the fireplace, laying on their stomach and going through their phone, the television on. They were waving their feet in the air, back and forth, and turned at the sound of the opening door, speaking before they saw who it was.

‘Daddy!’ said an American accent. ‘You’re hom—oh, who are you?’

No fear, no suspicion. Who was this, that had so much trust in someone keying into the flat? Someone could break in and kill them, an enemy or otherwise. Then again, this was a safe-house, something that MI6 didn’t know about, somewhere Q had been told to go by 007, himself. It was a nice flat, small but decorated with antiques—not the kind of antiques one expected however; whomever had done the decorating had an eye for mid-century modern futurism, and the colour pink, as well as erotic classical-style art.

‘Montgomery,’ said Q, as it was the first name to mind.

 _‘Monty!’_ said the man, in an affected toffy pronunciation, before falling back into American vowels, rolling to his back and getting up, crossing the room and saying, ‘You must be from _work_ , then, because you’re not at _all_ Daddy’s type—oh, don’t worry,’ he said, winking. ‘I have _no idea_ what Daddy does, he keeps work at work and home at home. Hungry? Do you like cake? I just made one! Come on, you look skinny, have some!’

Q found himself pulled into a dining room dominated by a teak table, the credenza having inlay patterns, and a full complement of cocktail glassware. The centrepiece of the table was a brass pineapple, surrounded by tropical flowers all in pinks and reds. The door to the kitchen was swinging and had pink glass, and the kitchen beyond it was, undoubtedly, pink. His nameless host came out with two plates of cake.

‘Come on, sit down, it’s just a pineapple, it won’t bite!’

Q sat, willing his nerves to lie down, and regarded the two-layer cake being put in front of him. It was surrounded by a generous helping of sugared strawberries, and iced with pink buttercream.

‘Pink champagne cake. I’ve been perfecting it. Don’t worry, I only keep the good ones.’ He set his down at the foot of the table, adjacent Q, who was at the right hand side of that place. ‘Do you want milk, or tea, or champagne?’

‘Tea is fine,’ Q said. ‘Earl Grey, if you have it.’

‘Of course I do! Just a moment!’

It took him more than a single moment, but he came back with a tray bearing an entire set (pink, of course; there was a theme). For himself, he had a champagne glass of milk. He poured Q’s tea, but thankfully left off offering to add the sugar and cream himself. Q liked that, he was very precise about his cream and sugar.

‘It’s heavy cream, and the sugar roses are rose flavoured.’

‘Of course they are.’

‘I am a _very_ fancy bitch,’ the man went on, and Q checked. The man seemed to notice, and laughed worthy of… well, of what you always expected a villain to sound like. It rang through the room, surprisingly loud for the way he’d been talking. ‘Monty, you _are_ darling! You must have known I was gay from the minute you got here, and you’re surprised?’

‘I can’t say as I’ve met any American queens, before.’

He gave a very queenly noise, hand going to the hollow of his throat. ‘Oh, _Monty_ , it’s so _rare_ to hear the old words! Bless you, child.’

‘You can’t be that much older than me.’

‘I am an immortal being, Monty, I was only _metamorphosed_ at the tender age I appear.’

Q had to smile, at that; he wasn’t sure if he believed that this man believed his words, or if he was just having Monty on and knew it.

‘All right,’ Q said, deciding to take it as a gentle barb against Asking a Lady’s Age. ‘I suppose you’re some sort of vampire, then?’

‘Of _course_ , dear, of course!’ He flashed a lopsided smile, and Q froze a moment, seeing the fangs. They were real; but then decades of internet use crashed down on him and he realised they must be very expensive dental work. ‘Isn’t Daddy lucky, _and_ I bake!’ He leaned his right arm on the table, hand folded under his chin in a way that would muss neither makeup nor put long nails anywhere in harm’s way. ‘Why did he send _you_ here?’

Oh dear, here was the crux of the matter; 007 hadn’t given him a cover story, just told him to get to this address, key in, and that he’d be safe here. ‘Don’t suppose you know what your boyfriend does for a living?’

‘Not a bit! I just say, “Daddy, did you win today?” and he says, “Yes, darling” or “No, darling” and I fix him a drink and we do couple things while I fix dinner.’

‘I’m not twelve, you can say sex.’

‘If I mean fuckin I’ll _say_ fuckin, boyo,’ he retorted in a deeper tone. ‘Couple things means couple things that _you_ don’t get to know about, because you’re a stranger—though you can’t be _that_ strange, if Daddy sent you here…’ he finally looked into Q’s eyes, and narrowed his own—which were also behind a pair of spectacles—his were wire half-frame, wire only on the bottom, so as not to get in the way of his eyebrows, which were perfectly shaped and shaded. Q was almost nervous, until 007’s apparently paramour said, ‘…but you’re not his type, you couldn’t be a lover from work,’ and dropped the idea.

‘Sorry?’ Q said, sipping the tea. It was very good tea, but quite strong. It was too good to be from a bag. 007 must keep his paramour well, Q was a little jealous. ‘I’m not his type?’

‘You’re young,’ said the queen, getting a forkful of cake and carefully stabbing a strawberry, ‘and you’re _thin_.’ He put the bite in his mouth, chewing it with a satisfied smile, leaning back and closing his eyes in bliss before, opening them, shooting a smug look reserved for those enacting a turnabout. ‘Neither are traits he holds in high regard.’

Q smiled, accepting the defeat. ‘Touché,’ he said, getting his own forkful of cake. Conversation came easy, after that—this boyfriend was a talker, an actor, not looking to be famous, just looking to have fun. He knew he’d never be famous, considering his gender. Another strangeness Q hadn’t expected—007 seemed to be entirely all right with not only men, but transmen. As for Q, he didn’t say much about himself—but that seemed perfectly fine with his host, who liked to talk, and didn’t pursue questioning Q after not getting answers the first time. Q listened, he was good at that.

You got good at listening, with the kind of brothers Q had grown up with.

After cake and tea, Q was invited into the pink kitchen, where there was a sunny little table by the window, and a huge black cat sleeping on the white cork floor in a sunbeam, fluffy and stretched out. All around Q were hearts, and there was a print on the wall, of a pair of fat twins, the text on the image indicating they were Freya and Freyr. Interestingly, the woman was the one holding a sword and covered in scars, and the man was the one with the sheaf of grain. Maybe that was why this print had been chosen.

Q watched him do the washing up, which he insisted Q not take part in, and wondered. He wasn’t thin, but he wasn’t what Q would see as ‘fat’ either. Then again, Q knew how cruel and perfectionist showbusiness could be.

‘So,’ said his host. ‘Do you like movies, or video games?’

It was a choice, and Q smiled; he hadn’t said the barest hint of what _he_ did, or what he even _liked_ to do, other than admitting he didn’t know much about art, or theatre. ‘What kind of video games?’

‘I have Portal and Dragon Age. I know those have a multiplayer mode, but I’ve never used it. Willing to try, though!’

Q laughed. ‘And what movies?’

‘I like all the delightfully melodramatic B-movies from the aughts, and we could also watch Leverage or Hannibal if you like.’

‘Interesting tastes you have.’ Q had expected an interest in Glee or… something. Wasn’t there a new Queer Eye show on? Was he being stereotyping? He’d never met someone like this, before; it was sort of a dying breed of gay man—quite literally, Q realised, with a sinking feeling everyone who knew about the AIDS genocide got. ‘Er, I suppose I could go for a film.’

‘Oooh, or we could watch Rocky Horror! Have you ever really _seen_ Rocky Horror? Like, watched it and paid attention?’

Q had to admit he hadn’t. He hadn’t even gone to a midnight showing, really.

‘Oh, we are _watching_ Rocky Horror.’

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [discord!](http://discord.gg/76nCqDh)


End file.
